


You're a Good Man, John McClane

by persnickett



Series: Bad Habits Die Hard [2]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John vs. The Toaster</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're a Good Man, John McClane

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bad Habits Die Hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/151818) by [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett). 



> John POV for part one of this series, Bad Habits Die Hard, but they both stand alone. Naughty language, slashy shenanigans, cheesy old-dude jokes, Canadian spellings. Prompt: stalemate.

John McClane had a problem.

 

It wasn’t the hole in his shoulder, or the unending mountain of paperwork on his new desk. And after the terrorists, hijackers, terrorists, murderers, thieves, and _terrorists_ , you’d think John could deal with this. But there was 125 lbs of hacker sitting on his couch at home, possibly secretly taking over the world, very likely clogging his drains and leaving sticky rings on his coffee table, and _definitely_ driving him out of his goddamn mind.

 

It started out with stupid, small-potatoes shit.

 

The first thing was probably the toaster. John had some crappy no-name thing that came with the place, and he never tended to use it that much. Partly because it was a crappy no-name thing, and the toast got stuck instead of popping up, and then it burned, and it set off the damn smoke detector. But mostly just because John didn’t eat at home very often.

 

Well, he didn’t before. But now he had Farrell. Which meant he had food everywhere.

 

**

 

He’d been staring at the walls in the hospital for two days when the nurse brought Matt’s release paperwork in along with his.

 

“You’re next of kin for Mr. Farrell, down the hall?”

 

“What? No, Lucy’s my daughter. Lucy M – Gennaro. She was only in for observation, went home yesterday.”

 

“Oh. Dear.” He’d seen this nurse before. She had a sweet-looking round face, and her chestnut hair was shot through with grey. And right now she looked flustered, for some reason. “The EMTs that brought him in said he was in your custody.”

 

“He was. He’s been cleared,” John said. He had a feeling he was missing something, the morphine drip could do that.  “Released from custody. I’m a cop.” Jesus. These people. They make you fill out everything three times, but do they read it? Nooo.

 

“Oh, I see. Sorry for the mix-up.” She reached out and took the sheets for Matt back, cradling them against her chest protectively. “You and your daughter were his only visitors, so I thought...”

 

John might be higher than a kite on these meds, but something was wrong here.

 

“Wait.” John awkwardly pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the hot pain that flowed down his arm when he did. “The ki– Farrell, he doesn’t have a next of kin?”

 

“There’s nobody listed on his insurance.” She shook her head sadly. “All we have is that he was a ward of state, in Connecticut. The information’s pretty badly out of date, but we’ll just get him to fill it in a little later when he’s awake.” She stepped away from the bed. “I’ll come back for yours, too. Thank you, Officer McClane.”

 

 _Detective_. Not that she cared.

 

Ward of the state, oh Christ. He’d never seen Farrell’s file. He knew nothing about this kid, nothing. Except that he was a potential threat to national security and...currently of no known address that wasn’t now blown up. 

 

“No – ” John stopped the nurse before she could reach the door. “You can just leave it with me. That’s fine.”

 

She hesitated, but her eyes softened and she patted him on his good arm when she handed the papers back.

 

He was going to regret this.

 

**

 

The extra room upstairs had been intended for Lucy and Jack when he bought the place, but John had taken the bunk beds apart years ago after they went unused several summers running.

 

Lucy had been a little too thrilled about the idea when John explained why he’d need her help hauling the mattress out of the basement. It shouldn’t really have surprised him, but John couldn’t help a swell of daddy’s pride – followed by a little wave of absent father’s guilt – when she pulled out his tool box and showed no trouble at all setting up one of the old bunks in the den on the first floor. Holly had done good.

 

There was a desk in there, which Farrell should like, and this way he wouldn’t have to deal with the stairs.

 

“You’re doing a good thing, Dad,” Lucy said, before stepping onto the bus back to Rutgers.

 

Yeah, he was _really_ going to regret this.

 

**

 

So Farrell stayed, and there was food everywhere. Pizza pops, pizza pockets, pizza on little bagels. There were horrible syrupy jet-fuel drinks in his fridge, and more kinds of toxic-coloured cakes than John knew Hostess even made.

 

But there were packages of pasta in the cupboard and steaks in the freezer now, too.  And once Farrell was up and walking around the house, he started actually _cooking_ things that – most nights – John didn’t mind eating.

 

He just kept reminding himself it was temporary.

 

There was one morning they had an early rehab appointment at the hospital. John glanced through the cupboards and rejected the eight different colours of sugar-coated cereal Matt had stashed in there. John generally wasn’t much for breakfast, but he had to eat something so he could take his pills, so he prepared for a fight with the toaster.

 

He lost. He was a regular one-man Larry, Curly and Moe for a minute while he shook the thing, jiggled the little handle, and then finally made the fatal mistake of sticking his finger into the slot to pull the toast out before it started smoking. At least he hadn’t grabbed a fork.

 

When you burn the shit out of your hand, the first reaction is to shake it around a lot. Instincts don’t account for recovering bullet-wounds though, and suddenly John was in no small amount of pain, and one hell of a mood. And it seemed that Farrell was conditioned to respond to ranting and swearing, ’cause suddenly he was _right there_. With ice and a towel somehow.

 

Trouble was, when Matt moved too fast like that, the knee on his injured leg tended to – yep, there it went – and John threw his left arm around Farrell’s waist, holding his throbbing right one out of flailing-range.

 

“Okay?” John waited while Matt shook his head and panted a little in pain and surprise.

 

“I will be. Just...” Farrell grunted as he tried to right himself, overbalanced, and ended up braced against John’s hip. He huffed a little frustrated laugh. “Thanks. Just don’t let go.”

 

“I gotcha.”

 

Matt’s hands were full with the ice and towel, and John’s hands were full of burn blisters and Matt. Stalemate. They exchanged a chagrined look, and then Farrell waved his fistful of ice at John’s quickly swelling burn-mark.

 

“Lemme see that.”

 

John obeyed, placing his hand on top of the towel, but he damn near yanked it away again when Farrell pressed the ice cubes directly onto his over-heated skin. He settled for his favourite curse-word.

 

He said the curse part louder than the ‘mother’ part.

 

Farrell had his head down over John’s fingers but this close up, he could still see the corner of his mouth twist upward. Yeah. Funny.

 

“Baby,” Farrell accused, under his breath.

 

“Don’t make me drop you, kiddo.” John laughed quietly. The ice was stinging its way down to a low level ache.

 

“Like you would.” Farrell murmured his dare without looking up. “Wuss.”

 

“...Punk.”

 

 “Geezer.”

 

 “Geek.”

 

They were both chuckling softly now. John had practically forgotten the burn, with the distraction of Matt pressed against him, hip to hip. Every time they laughed it sent Matt’s breath warm down his collar, and the trailing ends of his hair were a shivery tickle at the side of John’s neck.

 

Aaaaand that was about enough of that.

 

“Okay brainiac, how do we get out of this one?”

 

“Hmm? Oh!” Farrell met his eyes for just a second, then looked back down at John’s hand. “Okay, got it. I do _this..._ ”  

 

Farrell cupped his hand under the towel and around John’s fingers, holding the ice in place one-handed, and wrapped the towel around it to keep it there. 

 

“Then this.” With his hands now free, Farrell wrapped one arm around John’s back, and twisted his other hand in the front of his shirt before he drew himself upward. There was a split second too short to even get uncomfortable where Farrell laid the entire length of himself against John from shoulder to ankle, then gave a little shove to get himself upright.

 

“Okay, whoa.” Matt said, hopping around, and John kept a grip on his arm while he found his balance. “And _ow_. And...taa-daa!”

 

Farrell made little jazz-hands and looked completely and thoroughly pleased with himself once he was steady.

 

“Nice trick, David Cop-a-feel.”

 

“Mmm, how about a _hand_ for my lovely ass-istant,” Farrell said, making gropy-motions at John. Then he stuck his fingers in his mouth where they were reddened and wet from holding onto the ice.

 

“Listen, thanks for – ” John held up his towel-bound hand. “Now go get your shit together, huh? You know it’s gonna take you twenty minutes to get into that car.”

 

“Sure,” Farrell smirked. “And thanks for the pillar-action, Samson. Oh no waaaait,” he drawled, “Samson had hair.”

 

“Just go get your smart ass in the car.”

 

“Jeez, McClane, anyone ever tell you you might have a control issue?” John sighed heavily. It was 8 am and he was tired already. “Alright alright, I’m gone! I’m gone.”

 

And John absolutely did not laugh as Matt hobbled off down the hall, bitching about people rocking the attitude just because they saved the world a couple of times.

 

**

 

John hadn’t had anyone touch him – unless it was to punch him, or patch up a gunshot wound – since Holly. So there was probably some kind of shrink-psych explanation for it, but his reaction to the close contact was really throwing him for a loop.  

 

Their little scene in the kitchen kept re-playing itself in his head, bringing with it this weird sense-memory effect where John could swear he could feel his skin warming everywhere Farrell had been pushed up against him. He kept analyzing every move - the concern Matt showed when he’d seen John hurt himself, the way he just let John hold him up long enough to actually forget he wasn’t standing on his own, suggesting there was a heavy dose of trust growing there.

  
And then John thought maybe there shouldn’t be. Because, he was definitely starting to notice things he probably shouldn’t.

 

Like the way Matt’s hair curled damply against his neck when he came out of the shower – it would dry that way and go wavy, if he didn’t comb it right away. Then there was the way John knew that when Matt got too quiet it meant he needed a painkiller, and sure enough half an hour after John reminded him he’d be himself again, babbling away like somebody put a nickel in him. Nah, who was John kidding, sure, talk was cheap but Matt was giving it away for free.

 

But the most disconcerting, was when he found himself watching the way Matt sucked powdered sugar off his fingers after eating those little doughnuts, and how his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

 

Two days into this mental battle, a fresh distraction appeared. There was a new toaster on the counter when John went to pour his morning coffee.

 

“This yours?” He asked Farrell, who was sitting at the kitchen table with his own coffee cup and one of those magazine things he insisted was some kind of novel, but that John knew was really a comic book.  He paused with the cup halfway to his mouth, and looked up at John through his bed-messy bangs.

 

“It’s yours,” Matt shrugged, and nearly spilled his coffee all over his comic and John’s table.

 

“Sick of burned pop tarts?” John tried not to smile.

 

“I’m sick of burned _you_.” Matt set his coffee cup down safely so he could wave his hands around like he liked to do when he talked. “That thing was a serious fire hazard. You know I don’t even think it was compatible with like, wiring installed after 1955...not that this place has any of that,” Matt muttered.

 

“Kid I’m fine, it was one time. You don’t have to – ”

 

“Come on, McClane, just keep it okay? It’s the least I can do. I mean you let me stay here for free, and if that wasn’t enough, which it totally is, and thank you, again, by the way. But seriously. I owe you my life. Like literally, my life. And on top of that – look around – pretty much everything that’s in it, right now. So. Please. It’ll make me happy. Okay? Just…okay?”

 

Now suddenly John was eating toast every day, and couldn’t even look at the shiny new gadget without some big, dumb smile on his face. And frankly, it kind of pissed him off. Because – honestly.

 

 _He had to get a grip on himself. It was a compliment. Remember compliments? People tend to like a guy who saves their life. Shit just kinda works that way._

 

John had done things that saved a lot of lives. He had medals and a plaque from the City of Los Angeles he couldn’t even hang on the wall because he hated looking at them. He just couldn’t stand the idea of ‘heroics’. Being a hero was how guys ended up dead. Hell, ending up dead was how guys became heroes.

 

So you could keep your medals. But give him a stainless steel bread-warmer and suddenly the guys at the precinct are cracking jokes about shit eating grins way too big for riding the desk, and how the Irish must have gotten lucky last night.

 

**

 

As if all that wasn’t batshit enough, the whole thing had finally come to a head about a week ago, when John had decided Farrell really needed to find his own place. He’d help him. It was for his own good. And John’s sanity.

 

He’d made up his mind, it was time. The kid had to go. He’d been ready to tell him. Waiting for an opening really, as they sat on the couch watching the nightly news as per usual. Only – also the usual – the kid just wouldn’t shut up. On and on about government cover-ups, the CIA, the IRA, the _NBA_ , something about computers called a valve portal, and no shit, the special mutant chickens Col. Sanders was breeding. Yammering.

 

And maybe John was an idiot to get in the kid’s face and put his hands on him like he did – he’d just wanted a second to collect his thoughts before he made it sound like he was putting him out on the street. But when he’d made that move to cover Matt’s mouth up, it all just turned into touching, and _biting_ , and then more fuckin’ touching, and Matt actually goddamn _kissing it better_ like a four year old.

 

And John couldn’t say it after that. He couldn’t say much of anything, so he gave up and went to bed.

 

Not that he slept. He just laid there, prodding constantly at the swelling Matt’s mouth had left on his palm and rapidly losing what was left of his proverbial shit. It was a kiss, so what, so nothing. Sure, the kid had a set of lips on him fuller than most women John had ever – Jesus, Mary and – see, this was fucked up. Wasn’t it?

 

The thing was, John wasn’t sure any more. These days they had sensitivity training and shit, and you weren’t supposed to think like that.

 

 _It’s the 21 st century. It’s the same as anything else right? Tab A goes into Slot B. Except there is no Slot B. Just more tabs. Goddamn, Tab A everywhere. No B. They say there’s always option C, but C wasn’t an option, really. Not in this house. Better not be. _

 

No. No, this was not happening. He would have to get over it. And Matt would be fine, they’d just have to find him a new place. One where he didn’t have a guy nearly twice his age following him around and staring at his mouth. Christ.

 

 _He’d just get over it, make it through. This was temporary, right? Matter of time. Whole thing’d be over soon and life’d be back to normal._

 

 _**_

John waited for a time when he was less riled up to bring up the subject. But it just wasn’t happening. Something was going on with Farrell. The kid had taken to wandering the house half-dressed, and John couldn’t be sure if he was imagining things or whether Matt had always been so handsy.

 

Either Farrell was in the middle of a pretty serious laundry crisis, or he’d gotten the completely wrong idea. Or the right one, really, but that didn’t make it any less wrong.

 

The _things_ that were going through John’s head…

 

At first, John had tried to drink his inappropriate thoughts into submission with a couple more beers than he probably should have after dinner, given the pain meds he was still on. This backfired in a big way when John made the mistake of letting Matt give him a back rub one night.

 

Sure his shoulder was still pretty tight most of the time, and yeah, it helped. But he got so loose and uninhibited when he’d felt the kid up close and warm behind him, that he’d leaned into the touch maybe a bit too much. And when he turned around on the couch afterward, he’d practically pulled Farrell into his lap to return the favour, running his hands up and down Matt’s leg, avoiding the healing scar and gently kneading the taut, skinny little calf muscle wherever Matt indicated it was needed with little nods and grunts of encouragement.

 

That hadn’t been so bad actually, but if John remembered correctly, he’d also manhandled Matt up off the couch and into a hug, of all things, when he was done. And, jovially proclaiming that it was way past his bed time, he might have slapped the kid on the ass for good measure.

 

John tried a new tactic after that. He avoided Farrell.

 

It was easy enough. There was always a shit load of paper to push around at the precinct. Sure, the rookie Desk Sergeant did keep coming in to check if John wasn’t doing too much often enough to annoy the shit out of him, but in the end, they couldn’t _make_ him leave.

 

When John finally came through the door Friday night, Farrell was at it again. Spread out at the kitchen table with his models, a bunch of tiny little pots of paint, a can of that mad-man caffeine soda he never seemed to be without, and no shirt.

 

“You’re home.” Matt had hopped up out of his chair and was shifting restlessly from foot to foot like he couldn’t sit still even though it probably hurt him.

 

“Yeah. You’re up late.” John shucked his jacket, and felt wide, brown eyes flicking over him. Jesus, kid. No more fuel for the fire. Please.

 

“Well I was kind of…waiting… Hey – um. McClane?” Matt bounced a little on the balls of his bare feet, and John wondered how many of those caffeine thingies he’d had. “Can we talk?”

 

He counted two more empty cans on the kitchen counter, and for a second he was tempted to check out the recycling for more evidence. John was tired and his eyes felt gritty. He rolled his shoulder a little, instead.

 

“Sure, kid.”

 

Matt limped over to join him in the hallway, the light from the streetlamp outside the window painting a pale stripe down the smooth skin of his shoulder and chest. Great. John’d been home thirty seconds and he was already losing his damn mind.

 

“Shoulder bothering you?” Farrell reached out, like he was about to touch him, but he stopped and let his hand fall back. John wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

 

“Nah. I’m good. Just sat at the desk too long.”

 

Matt nodded, flopping all that silly brown hair all over the place, and making John want to touch it.

 

He would just try and tame it, comb his fingers through it so it was neat and all went the same way. Tuck it behind Matt’s ears maybe, so he could see his eyes when he talked. That’s all.

 

Yep, he was crackin’ up. John just kept his hand where it was, firmly wrapped around the coat peg where he’d just hung his jacket.

 

“S’a matter?” John asked, gesturing vaguely at Matt’s sparse clothing, “You shrink all your shit in the laundry? You need me to take you somewhere to pick up some more tshirts tomorrow?”

 

“Ha, that’s funny. Laundry, no. But that’s kind of what I wanted to talk about. Well, not that. But…”

 

John stood up a little straighter. This was it. Farrell was going to suggest maybe it was time for him to find a place of his own. John was glad. Really he was, he’d been trying to tell the kid as much for a week.

 

So why didn’t he feel glad? There was a little dissatisfied lump somewhere between his chest and his throat. He swallowed around it, as Matt fidgeted unhappily, pushing his bangs out of his eyes before speaking up.

 

“So – why is this a problem, John?” John cocked his head by a fraction, still waiting for Matt to get to the point. “This. Me. Not wearing a shirt.”

 

“Hey, it’s not _my_ problem. You’re the homeless hacker street-urchin. People will just think I’m not takin’ care of ya.”

 

“So, the problem is what people will think?”

 

“What? Kid, it’s late, and if you’re not gonna start making sense – ”

 

“I thought _I_ was the one taking care of _you_?”

 

Right. That’s what they were supposed to be talking about.

 

“Yeah.” John took a breath in, the kid was right, he couldn’t deny that. “You’ve done a good job of that, with the apron, and the cooking, takin’ the garbage out when I can’t deal. And now I’m workin’ more, an’ I know you probably want to get back to Jersey soon…”

 

 But Matt kept interrupting him. 

 

“So it’s not a problem. It’s not a problem if I stand _right here_?” Matt was way too close. And John really wished he was wearing more clothes.

 

He felt like there was an invisible bubble around Matt. _Danger_. And the closer he moved, the more the barriers of it pushed against John. Squeezed him, so his chest felt tight and constricted.

 

“It’s not a problem if I do _this_?” Matt was touching him now, settling his hands on either side of John’s beltline.

 

Oh there was a problem all right, and it was growing by the second.

 

“Matt.” John had to concentrate to talk, by now. Those nimble keyboarding fingers fiddled nervously with the edges of his shirt where it had come untucked during the long day of desk work. John was coming undone just as easy. “You don’t want…”

 

“I dunno. I think I might.”

 

Not good. Encouragement like this was not good. There was only so much a man could take, and John had probably had it days ago. But this was a bad idea. A very bad fuckin’ idea. He was sure it was. There had to be a million reasons why, and if John could just think for a goddamn minute, he could explain it.

 

But he couldn’t think, not with Matt’s skin, and Matt’s hair, and Matt’s deep, brown eyes just watching him. Waiting. He couldn’t think. But he had to try.

 

“I’m _old_ , kid. And I’m a man, for fuck’s sake…and I’m not…Look, I want you to be…”

 

“I know,” Matt cut in, quietly. “That’s what makes you that guy.”

 

**

 

And in the end it wasn’t a bullet, or an exploding plane, or an airborne car that brought down John McClane. 125 lbs of hacker moved in under his arm, and with a vague tumbling sensation, John was lost.

 

**

 

They say your life flashes in front of your eyes at the end, and John expected this right here was gonna make the big slide show. He knew this feeling. The out-of-body jolt of the universe jabbing a finger in your face and reminding you it was _bigger,_ and you were just lucky to be invited. He recognized it from his wedding day, and the first day he’d held his little Lucy. And then tiny Jack, whose miniature feet barely reached the crook of his elbow if he stretched him along his forearm, head cradled in his open palm.

 

So if this was the highway to hell, then John was giving up the wheel. He knew that whatever it took, whatever Matt wanted, John would provide. A new apartment, or to stay here and piss him off forever, or even _this_ , John thought, as he let his arms come around Matt’s waist and laid his cheek against Matt’s ridiculous hair, and fought to just keep breathing.

 

It was dark in the hallway and John’s senses were full of Matt – the faint, warm scent of him, the soft brush of his hair under John’s jaw, the heat of his smooth, pale skin – so he missed how it happened.

 

They’d been standing there, wrapped in their own world, bantering about something or other; all soft laughter and the feeling of Farrell grinning against his chest.

 

The next thing John knew, they were kissing. Or at least, Matt was kissing him. And not just once or twice. Matt worked fast it seemed, he’d already moved them past that awkward start-stop phase and was speeding up the action now, breathing harder, and tugging at him impatiently.

 

John’s hands came up, just a reflex really, but before he could stop it, his fingers brushed the tips of Matt’s hair. Matt shivered against him and made this tiny sound – barely audible, but it brought reality back in like a battering ram and John froze. His eyes opened.

 

Then Matt was talking again, but it wasn’t so annoying when the words came out pressed against John’s mouth the way they were right now.

 

“You can touch me, McClane, I’m not gonna break. Touch…fuckin’ _touch_ me, McClane.”

 

There was a brief scuffle as John tried to oblige by reaching for Matt’s shoulders, and it was clearly not what Matt was after. Matt caught a rough hold of one of John’s hands. He jammed it toward his crotch, but John managed to veer to the right so Matt just ended up mashing John’s palm against his hip.

 

It was jarring enough, the hot silken skin stretched tight over the bone where it jutted out of the waistband of Matt’s sweats, and John gasped sharply. Jesus. This was insane.

 

Matt was slowly dragging John’s hand where he wanted it. Once he got it there, it was all John could do not to shove the kid away and nip this whole crazy shit in the bud. They were skipping a couple bases, John was sure. But then how did you count, really? He turned his head away, trying to get some distance, sanity, a second to think. But he didn’t move his hand.

 

“McClane?” Matt was saying, “...John.” He brought his free hand up, gripping John’s chin and turning his gaze back so they were looking each other in the eye.

 

Even in the dim light John could see Matt’s eyes had gone liquid and his mouth was kissed red. _Matt wanted to be touched._ John raised the fingers of the hand Matt wasn’t pinning in place. He traced them over the sensitized lips and Matt’s eyes fluttered shut in response for a second. But he opened them again, intent on something.

 

“Okay?" Matt asked him. And suddenly, it was.

 

Because, sure, maybe John was a dirty old man, and he was corrupting this kid eight ways from Sunday. Maybe this thing between them was going deeper than John wanted to admit, and it would bite him in the ass later down the road. But it was Matt who was in control here. Matt wanted this. Matt was the one who had the wherewithal to stop and make sure John wasn’t losing it.

 

Matt was going to be just fine. 

 

Instead of an answer, John curled his fingers where Matt wanted them, and was rewarded with the kid tipping his head back and making a moaning sound that John could definitely get used to. He squeezed.

 

“Oh!” Matt’s head snapped up. “That. Yeah, that’s…that’s very…wow. Oh, yeah.”

 

Then John dove forward and brought their mouths together again. Because shutting Matt up in the best way John could think of was just another reason why this whole thing might actually work.

 

 

 ________   
'Snick, June 2010

 


End file.
